Snow

       Snow

No smell, it is just as

A fleeting  moment,

Snow silent  as   yogi,

Karma yogi, contemplative,

Constant from  above,

Yet it falls, flakes

 Undergo rebirth or rehabilitation,

 Dilation  into  fluidity

From  sky or  clouds,

 to  the  flat or spooky ground,

Two different zones,

not out of  arrogance,

But   to  demonstrate

Above  is always Divine

To protect  the ground

 A feel of Touch is

 Essential. I look up,

Eyes  are blinded,

Am defeated.

Living in a world of Glass and Jazz.

   Living in a world of   Glass and Jazz.

  Living   in a  world of  Glass  and  Jazz

 Some revel, some amuse, more   abuse.

The   tainted, tarnished  glass   still  retains

 Its vituperative  glamour  on the surface.

 The  sides reflecting ,uncanny,

  its rigmarole.

  A squirrel lost   its way, now bold, squeezes

  In viaduct  the zinc  platform.

  You shut the door, be in the shell of your

  Four walls.  The directionless   is scared,               

  Struggles  its way out.

 You tap  the   heavy teak wood   door,

 Sentinel  of the   vanguard   of my living,                 

  Worshipful  and stable   and flexible,                          

 the Stopper  fails, the  door  gets  slammed.

 Recline on the table, your  ever supportive,

  Membrane or  metaphor  or poetry or prose,

  Past or  Future, The Present  Holds you,

  Yet, The fleeting moment, nervous  fiber

  Of  imagination, see - saw  Hope and

  Desperate ,close your  eyes  and  lean on.

                                                                                                             

Requiem for Mandolin U. Srinivas.

              Requiem  for  Mandolin  U. Srinivas.

    Ye, Gods! why were  you so  clandestinely   ruthless?

    Were you curelessly jealous of his Talent?

     Ye, Holy Trinity, did you all three have a preconceived

     Understanding at the Time of Creation, he should be

     Snatched   away, ere the ripe?  For you designed

    ahead to transplant him to a  better celestial abode?

     Did  Brahma, rightfully hold a furtive  liaison  with

      Lord  Shiva, to silence his Melody in a short notice?

      Vishnu  looking  on  helplessly   for  a nod from  Shiva?

      Where  are those deft fingers that played  unique

      Rhythms  of  celestial  music, feasted  all?

       Fie upon this  wrangling Karma, so punctual,

      First in its unfailing uniform to perform.                   

     That gifted, seasoned Mandolin, in the

     Treasured corner, craves for its companion,

     Its  affectionate master, in all angst, pleads

     to  enter his Soul to revive the deft touch.

    

                         

                                   

     

Bird and Building

        Bird   and  building.                   

On   ear  and  ear two  noises   too  near  to

End    and  enjoy :For  one is the  Crow calling

At the  other of its clan, for a bird is caught in the

 Mess of   Wires, on top of the electric lamp post.

 The  next is the  building ,construction site,

The breaking of stone  and jelly ,

Women  climbing with heavy load on

Their heads, all for  livelihood .

How  these two  sad  and sordid  

Inevitable pitfall of our  living system.

No protection  for  the flying high, cawing:

No  care for  the women lifting weight and wan.                  

This commercial, commercialized, environs,

Bereft of its pristine charm  and care,

Our original  make   and making are

Breaking down. Being pure, we

Tend to think how Time

Brings  its  own havoc and miracle.

Rushing towards  man’s last Dust,

Fast   towards   man’s   first slime.

                                

Child in its own world of happiness.

Child in its own world of happiness

  It is   the kid’s  happiness.

Four  decades  ago, the  hanging black board

Or the slate with wooden frames on all four sides,

Black   stone  or  slender foldable foiled  sheets

are  the  luxury of  school kids. The tiny slate   pencil           

Or the chalk, aided, aiding  companion used

With   meticulous dexterous   fingers, tender they are.            

Small letters, big drawings written  and turned

Upside down, with the same formula, slate

Coming closer  to the eyes and cheeks.                    

 The learner  wipes the sweat carelessly

mechanically with the bottom of the jacket.            

I recall an innocent kid wiping the numbers

On the slate, with the SALIVA  of the mouth,

The  hand again with the silky encounter of  jacket.

Those days a source of happiness

For the observer and learner.

An ( Imaginary) satirical elegy on the deaths of many

     An (imaginary) satirical elegy on the death of many .

  Alas! Countless  there are, closer  to Breathless  sleep,

   Nay,possibly, wriggling in  acute pain, wreath in  vain.

   Perhaps,  pretending, pining, ailing, counting coins  Gold ,

   Cut   Groining  and moiling ,wishing  for  some   more  hard work,

   More  luxury, more homes, more infrastructure.                                      

   Gripped  the victims  by hoops  of  praise   and  flattery.

    Hard  hearted, holding  their  hearts  coughing,

    Wishing for  more  Gold  and   Silver   in  their coffers,

    Do they  call  the  gods  to  aid  them?

    Hare  Krishna ,Hare Rama, where  are you?

     No  Rama ,or Krishna   comes  to  their  rescue,

    For  hitherto   those vile,  denigrated   Their existence.

    Nay!  every word  uttered

    Or muttered is   a  sly  curse  or  vituperation.

    Some  seem to  smile, or  awakened,

     Do  they  realize how  many they  would have

    Strangled, killed  alive  in  life span.

    A   sheer  sadism they  delighted in.

    A mighty  armour   for  them to wear.

    Gather   here, all  the  onlookers,

    Behold! how  arrogance   and ambition suffer,

    Harsh tongues, silent manoeuvres   

      Gain them  their  dues.

                                                                                                      

  

An Imaginary drunken situaion.

     An  imaginary  drunken situation.

She meticulously negotiates  a thin

Filmy layer of hair on the nozzle

Of  the  slick  oily bottle, transparent:

To keep it  intact  and  clean.

By the time eventide comes, she

has  to  hide  it  or  destroy  it,

for   her,  his  return is  a grim  disaster

 rum and gin  are  his  forte.

 She  has  to change  the  scenario  

Of   the sinister  drinks,

For  the  dysfunctional  lobby

Is   a  nightmare for  her,

For  her  sire, it  is  a  routine  thrill.

Clock Six strikes a  terror,

For  his  fond  craving of   the vial,

His staggering  and  volleying

are  the walls’   crescendo.

Her   throw of a  keychain

Her defensive protocol,

Dissolves the vial, know not

If  their  tussle  and  tempo too.

A close kith remembered

          A  close  kith  remembered.

   You  left us  some   five  years ago,

   Leaving  us pining  for you, you

   To merge  with  the  Galaxy,

  Every time  I look up, if  I could  see  your

   Face  by chance in any  one of the  stars,

   Stars  twinkle, as if  to make me wait,

   Finally  only to disappoint my expectations.

   Where  are you  now hidden?

   Each   time  I see  your undusted  books,

   Your  moth  eaten cupboard, I infer you are .

   You are  taken  away, ere  your   Ambition  unfulfilled .      

   Perhaps  you  are  a  tender  sapling  in  a  fertile  soil,

   Or  one  among  the  many  in a   hut,

  Or  still  in   the   calculative  scale  of  God

  Where  should  you  be  created, or  still  you 

  Are  travelling  to  Reach  Him, until  your

   Karma  is  exhausted   or  be  reborn 

  Or  to be  recreated  or  shaped  anew.

  Stars   shine  again  as if  to  re enter

   My  affliction   to  assuage  me

   With  a  mystic  positive clairvoyance.

     

Remember

             Remember

Remember  always   Sanctified  Dawn  and Dusk,

Illumined   stars, a  moiety of His cosmogony.

The first  call from your Mentor, Guru,                                                                 

 with  assured   Blessings  and  Protection

 Remember unto your last Breath.

Always   the  cotton  plant, serenading,

its sacrifice, Remember  in summer,

more of  its  shedding constructive foliage.   

Remember  the  fascinating  and  simple yarn

That  spins  and covers our  shame.               

Don’t  forget  to remember the miserable

Days, fighting, suffering  alone, not knowing

What for  you were suffering alone, until

Your worshipful  Guru came to slowly

Remove  the ignorance, while He solely

Bears the brunt of  all  sins of  humanity.

Staunchly   remember   this  forever.

Don’t  forget those  bread crumbs

Which were a luxury once, now

You throw for  birds, their  sustenance.

Remember the  Dusk is followed by

A  favourable   bounteous Dawn.

Bereft of Happiness,whyness.

Bereft of  whyness, happiness.

This  prying  business of  whyness

Is  stultifying . should  it be in all segments?

Should  this  blind questioning pervade

all  arena  without  conscience or reason?

This  is  a  rotten ,  wry/ spy system, bugging

Quite   a  many ruthless, thoughtless  and egoistic.

Is the   gift of   elocution, the power of articulation

That  induces  Man ,this pervert and poisoning veer

Contaminating one and all, hurting many, does this fetch

Real happiness? This  makes  the surroundings  morose,

 I am sure, those   adamant    will end up  comatose

Depriving   themselves  real happiness.

My happiness  sits  calm  and  jubilant over

The  beams of  gubernatorial Sun’s galore

Mocking  at  man’s folly .

                                                                                                                              

              

Happiness

         Happiness

Sheltered   in  my  sobered  cove  of

Rumination followed  by  writing,

My view catches  the sudden pirouette ,

 Frisk  and  swoop  on the  oval shaped  mound.        

The  orange  eyed, peacock   coloured

neck of  the  exotic  bird  shines  through

the  balcony, more  by its calls  for  its  clan,

pecking  at the  rice balls,  my   daily ritual

of  feeding   my  usual  visitors.

Each  careful   peck  at  the  particle ,

Is  the  gratification   I receive,

Suffice  of  hunger  for  the  birds,

They don’t distinguish  stale  rice

Or  fresh ones. A whiff  of  wind

throws  all the  food  particles

much to the  chagrin  of starved,

yet  my privilege  these  birds     are.

Their fond look of expectation,

My replenishing the  plastic   plate

 A  source of bonafide   Benediction   for me.

A  humble   take on  Guardian’s  An  Autumn’s sunset

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

In  the  eventide, she  construes her life’s   currents                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Are  dried now, yet sitting  by the riverbank, she purloins

Moves  of   ripples  to  suit  her  waves of    imagination,

Why should she purloin ? Is she  purblind   to the  happenings?

The  hoary past lingers still ,she is  now misery’s offspring.

She  sings  a  dirge of  directionless  stature.

Dead to  all shames, demoralising, forgotten  of  all glories,

Whereunto   doth the present lead, she introspects.

“not to sailless  seas”, this  river bank is enough

To alleviate   my pouring , she ruminates,

‘I  shall wander  here, a  shadow’s  shade,

 Colourful fins, cranes   as if in meditation,

  Possibly  soothe   my  angst .

 Perhaps, a  Moon shine  will  retrieve me soon.

Micro poem-Fern

Micro poetry-    Fern

In  the  fern of  a

Deep rooted  Tradition,

You live  and breathe,

No hurricane, nor hard blow

Can thwart this, you are

Sustained by  a  strong  Will .